Well, Well, Well, So I Can Die Easy
by Ixion of Moonlight
Summary: He's losing weight; the dark blotches underneath his eyes are obvious. He's grabbing at the scar more often. Sam Winchester during Hell and after. Spoilers for season 7.


Author's Note: So I'm really nervous about this, but I just had to write out my feelings and it ended up being this jumbled up thing. I'm not saying it's good or anything, but I needed to write this. This is a Sam in Hell fic, about some of the shit he's going through during that time and after. This is **M for torture and suicidal themes (and probably at the extreme borders of that rating).** There's also lots of swearing. It's dark and I hope that doesn't offend anyone but please if these are triggers for you, please don't read it.

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><p>Well, Well, Well, So I Can Die Easy<p>

By: Ixion of Moonlight

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><p>The sound of sparks from the flames bleeds over Sam begging, sobbing for Dean to pull the hooks out of his skin.<p>

Until the weight of his body tears the hooks through skin and muscle, leaving strips of flesh hanging off him like a snake skin. When he collapses, the fire licks at his skin until it melts him back together.

Demons watch him scream. They watch him bleed out for 180 years.

Sam has never been more aware that he has twenty four ribs until Lucifer carves him open and feels along the cracks in the Enochian sigils.

"Gorgeous work, Sammy." And then he digs deep and separates them until they curl through his back like wings.

"Those saintly insides look black now, don't they?"

Sam twists, digging the hooks in further. All he can think of is Dean.

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><p>He's on his knees; Dean sews up his back as he writhes away from each pass of cold through his skin.<p>

"Sammy," he drawls. "I love you sure, but this shit ain't gonna fly." His fingers are rough, but the words are soft.

Dean curls a chain around his neck. The cold feels awkward, like a press of sharp that blends into a smooth warmth. Like a snake resting against his skin. Sam stands naked, sweat pooling into the arch of his collarbones. His stomach muscles jerk against the feel of hooks placed against his spine. Blood splatters in his eyes and runs down his neck. Sharp breaths of ash. His eyes turn black.

"Going guano is better with a hit." The cold of Dean's eyes, the swagger of his walk, right down to the scars are all him. The part of Dean that bled out down here, but he buries in nights of broken bones and the wrap of a good fuck's legs around his waist.

"Dean. No. No." Chains rattle against the concrete, burn up his legs and dig into his palms through bone.

"Guess we'll just have to peel that pretty, pretty face until you break. The blood's gonna feel so good, Sammy. You'll feel like you're in paradise."

Dean watches with demon eyes, the lines of his body deceptively soft as if he could sink through the floor. The tension in his shoulders speaks otherwise, and his skin stretches white over his knuckles. Sam leans forward, neck taut, eyes closed. Surrender. The chain slides a burn around his neck and the rattle reminds him of what his bones sound like broken.

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><p>He's terrified of fire. He skewers himself against the meat hooks for a reprieve from the flames. When Cas pulls his body from Hell, once he gets his soul, he almost tells Dean. Almost tells him how many scars he has now. But then Dean's eyes would go dark and he'd look too much like a demon caught in the tangle of intestines and the workings of a human body.<p>

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><p>He's losing weight; the dark blotches underneath his eyes obvious. He's grabbing at the scar more often, whispering, desperate,<p>

"Come on fucker. Dean's real. I'm not-"

"Sammy?"

He jumps, bashing his left knee against something and spilling coffee on Dean.

Dean can read the truth of it in his eyes.

_I'm sorry, but I'm losing it._

He cuts the scar open again and when Dean sews it shut, all he can whisper-slur together is, "Can't feel it Dean. S'not working."

"Listen fucker. Sammy!" The world goes white for a second. Can't feel his fingers. "Making the wound deeper isn't going to get rid of all the other shit. You've got me and the road and fuck all else."

Fuck Cas. Too much guilt over Cas wouldn't get them anywhere. They had looked for him in that fucking lake for hours, soaked to the bone.

They're running on empty these days.

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><p>The leather seats of the Impala mold to Sam when he scrunches his knees against the door and tries to sleep.<p>

Hell walks in his dreams. He's wrist deep in Dean's guts. Demon eyes are looking back at him. Eventually he gives in to the wicked smile. Sucks down blood and pleasure, the only pleasure to be had. There's always torture, Dean whispers. Tells Sam about the snap of bones in someone's wrist, about the feeling he gets when he tears into a soul.

"All that blood. And fear," Dean says as if he's tasting it on his tongue.

Sam rips out his spine, but he never forgets those hollow demon eyes glaring at him, so much like _Dean_.

Sam wakes up in a white room. He's screaming, pulling against the restraints until he bleeds.

"DEAN!"

Then he wakes up in a bathtub filled with ice; his bones jarring against the sides of the tub. He thinks he might be bleeding out, breathing shallow into the quiet of the bathroom.

"GOOD MORNING VIETNAM!" Lucifer sticks out his bifurcated tongue.

Sam jerks from the ice water to see another Sam. Tall, demon eyes.

"Howdy. I'm gonna take my time."

This other Sam rips him apart piece by piece, reminding him of every scar, every wound Dean ever stitched together.

"Too bad the angel in a trench coat wanted Dean's cock more than yours. Could've had a hand print instead of walking around without a soul. Just think of all those souls you sent to heaven, Sammy. You were such a soft college boy before all this. Just think what you could have had without Dean," fake Sam says, knowing his words are poison. Something that will linger for days, burning like acid in his other self's brain pan.

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><p>He knows he's gripping his Taurus in his left hand because his right hand has a piece of glass in it. He knows he's bleeding all over the Impala. He feels the heat coming off the road and breathes it into his lungs.<p>

He thinks, only for a second, wouldn't it just be easier? But he lets Dean caress the gun out of his hand. He lets Dean carry the weight for both of them.

He lets Dean let these strangers strap him down. He dreams about Dean's hell.

He thinks he might never see the road again.


End file.
